Authors: Cara Elliott
“There is also a fascinating selection of picture books on ancient armor located near the back wall,” said Devlin.
Anna’s feet tangled in the fringe of the carpet, causing her to bark a shin against the leg of a worktable. “W-w-what makes you think I have any interest in armor?”
“Given your fascination for weaponry, I thought you might enjoy them,” said Devlin. “The engravings are quite detailed, and who knows, they might serve as inspiration for the play you two are writing.”
“Play?” repeated Caro blankly.
“Oh, yes, the play,” exclaimed Anna quickly. “There is no medieval scene in it, so a suit of armor would be out of place.”
“Oh, come—use your imagination, Miss Sloane.”
“Mine is clearly not nearly as vivid as yours, Lord Davenport.” Taking pains not to limp, she set off for the sanctuary of the shelves, hoping her sister would have the good sense to follow along instead of lingering in conversation with the marquess.
Caro did—but only because her curiosity was piqued. “What play?” she whispered.
“He spotted me sketching a pistol in Mr. Manton’s display window. I had to make up as story as to why,” replied Anna in equally low tones.
“Come to think of it, writing a play for the guests to perform could be quite a lark,” mused Caro.
“Not for me. In case it has slipped your mind, I’ve got a deadline, and precious little time in which to finish my manuscript.” She made a face. “Speaking of which, after I find a book describing the historical ruins in this area, I had better spend the rest of the morning in my room, working on the next chapter.”
“And I think I shall search out a copy of Shakespeare’s
Midsummer Night’s Dream
and have a look at the play within a play.”
Lord Dunbar’s assistant secretary helped them in locating the desired books, and after a longing look at the rest of the magnificent collection, Anna reluctantly returned to her quarters.
Work
, she reminded herself. She had come here to work, not to moon over a rakish rascal’s kisses and the terrible temptations they stirred inside her.
Sharpening her pen, Anna slapped a fresh sheet of foolscap onto the blotter and uncapped her inkwell. The best way to exorcise the Devil was through writing, and she had come up with some interesting ideas for a new plot twist.
And yet, as the nib touched the paper, she hesitated for a moment, thinking about fact before starting in on fiction.
The fact was, Davenport was acting very havey-cavey.
Prowling around the castle in places he had no right to be, stealing a book from the earl’s library…
which yet again raised the unsettling question—what was he up to?
It was no secret that the marquess was always desperately in need of money. It was assumed by the
ton
that he meant to marry a rich heiress. But perhaps he had other ideas on how to refill his coffers.
Hmmm.
Some time later, she was still musing over the conundrum when Caro’s light knock pulled her out of her reveries.
“Any progress?” Her sister’s brows shot up as she spotted the blank page. “Um, is there a problem?”
“Men,” muttered Anna through her teeth. “Or, rather, one gentleman in particular.”
“Let me guess.” Caro’s mouth curled up at the corners. “Did he steal another kiss?”
“No!” She slapped down her pen. “I have a feeling that he may be planning to purloin something far more valuable than that.”
“Ooooo, the plot thickens!”
“Stop that,” groused Anna. “It’s not a jesting matter.”
Her sister’s grin disappeared. “You’re serious?”
She nodded. “Quite.”
“What makes you think that?”
After hearing the terse account of the previous evening’s hide and seek, Caro pursed her lips. “It’s intriguing, but hardly incriminating. Maybe he was just restless after visiting the prince’s quarters and decided to explore the ancient part of the castle.”
“I know, I know.” Her fingers began to drum on the blotter. “At this point it’s pure speculation, and yet I feel certain there is some mischief afoot here. I just have to find the proof.”
Caro’s reply was uncharacteristically restrained. “That has an ominous ring to it. You are beginning to sound like Emmalina.”
“I
am
Emmalina.”
The comment drew a laugh, but it quickly gave way to a quizzical huff. “Yes, yes, but she is the devilish side of you that exists only on paper. The real you is too carefully composed to do anything rash.”
Am I?
“You wouldn’t want to do anything risky that might expose your secret,” went on her sister. “Playing sleuth with Lord Davenport could be dangerous. Whatever he is up to is no concern of yours.”
“But I can’t help being curious,” murmured Anna.
“You know what they say—curiosity killed the cat,” pointed out Caro.
“Cats have nine lives,” she countered, feeling rather pleased with her cleverness. “Ha, ha, ha.”
“That may be so, but racy romance novelists have only one,” shot back her sister. “And trust me, just a small slip could prove mortal to your reputation.”
“Perhaps I don’t care about my reputation,” muttered Anna.
“You wouldn’t be able to write any more books.”
The quill seemed to stir against the blotter, adding its own flutter of warning.
Anna didn’t wish to confess her fears that her inspiration may have gone missing for good, so instead she merely muttered, “Hell’s bells, since when have you become the Voice of Reason?”
“Now that I’ve turned the age to be admitted into the adult world, perhaps I’ve decided that certain excesses of emotion ought to be left in the schoolroom.”
She sighed. “You are right, of course, to counsel caution. I won’t do anything rash. However, don’t become
too
much of a stick-in-the-mud.”
“I doubt there is any danger of that happening. Exercising restraint is deucedly difficult.” Caro cracked her knuckles and began pacing in front of the hearth. “I swear, I was sorely tempted to punch Lord McClellan in the nose this morning.”
“Talk about slaying one’s reputation in one fell swoop,” said Anna dryly. “What did he do to provoke your ire?”
“He saw me leaving the library with the volume of Robert Burns’s poetry as well as the Shakespeare play and a book of the Bard’s sonnets—and made a
very
mocking comment about simpering schoolgirls and their silly infatuation with poetry and true love.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t cram the books down his throat, along with making him eat his words.”
“I was sorely tempted,” grumbled Caro.
“I’m very glad to hear that you haven’t become
too
staid in your old age,” said Anna.
“I fear there’s little chance of that.” Her sister grinned. “As Josette says, a lady should be a little dangerous.”
The word stirred an uncomfortable prickling in her fingertips. “Which reminds me that I had better get back to work on Emmalina’s adventures, else I really will be in peril of missing my deadline.”
“I, too, plan to spend the rest of the day writing,” said Caro defiantly. “A satirical ode about gentlemen who have no more sense of romance in their soul than a garden slug.”
T
he unrelenting rain continued, keeping the guests cooped up indoors for the rest of the day. Cards, billiards, and backgammon provided diversion for the gentlemen, while reading, letter writing, and playing the pianoforte kept the ladies occupied. By suppertime, however, everyone seemed a little restless.
“Is it my imagination,” murmured Caro, as she and Anna entered the drawing room with their mother, “or is the champagne flowing a little faster tonight?”
“Given the dreary wetness outside, Lord Dunbar does appear anxious to add a bit of sparkle to the evening’s proceedings,” answered Anna.
Caro repressed a laugh as the elderly Scottish baron became a trifle too animated and nearly spilled his wine down the ample cleavage of Lady Hohenzugger, the older and stouter of the two German nobles. “Things are already getting more than a little effervescent.”
“Don’t giggle, girls,” commanded their mother in a low voice. “It’s most unbecoming.”
“Yes, Mama,” answered Anna.
Lady Trumbull was distracted from further chiding by the approach of Prince Gunther and Colonel Polianov, the Russian attaché. In contrast to the prince’s fair-haired Nordic good looks, Polianov was dark—dark hair, dark eyes, dark scowl twisting his handsome mouth.
Anna had met him only in passing, but her impression was that the man did not possess a sense of humor.
“Ah, good evening ladies,” said the prince cheerfully. “I am so glad to see you in particular, Miss Sloane.”
Lady Trumbull’s lips curled up in a cat-in-the-creampot smile.
“You see, the colonel and I are hoping you can help us resolve a little disagreement.”
“
Da
,” added the colonel brusquely. “His Highness thinks the Russian word ‘
олень-самец
’ means ‘stag’ in English. While I am quite certain it means ‘doe.’ I have been informed that you are familiar with my native language, so perhaps you could confirm that he is wrong.”
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Devlin had come up right behind her, and his whisper was only loud enough for her to hear.
The marquess was certainly not lacking in a sly sense of humor, thought Anna, however caustic and cutting it might be.
“Actually, the prince is right, sir,” she answered, trying to ignore the pulsing heat of Devlin’s presence. It felt as if the silk of her gown would burst into flames if he came any closer.
“You must be mistaken,” replied the colonel.
“I don’t claim to be fluent in your language, sir, so that may well be true,” answered Anna diplomatically. “Perhaps there is a Russian-English dictionary in Lord Dunbar’s magnificent library that you might consult for a definitive answer.”
“I shall inquire.” Clicking his heels together, Polianov inclined a curt bow and walked off, not before giving the prince a daggered look.
“Dear me, what a dreadfully serious fellow,” commented Prince Gunther, with a wry grimace. “Please accept my apologies, Miss Sloane. I did not mean to put you in an awkward position.”
“Thank goodness she sent him scampering off to vent his ire on the bookworms and dust motes,” said Devlin loudly. “That grim face and grating voice were ruining my appetite.”
“But not your thirst,” murmured Anna softly.
He grinned and took another swallow of his wine.
“The Russians do have a penchant for melancholy,” said the prince. “Their brooding makes Shakespeare’s Hamlet look like a jolly fellow.”
“By the by, Your Highness,” asked Devlin abruptly. “Is there bad blood between you and the colonel?”
Prince Gunther looked perplexed. “I’ve never met the fellow before. Why do you ask?”
“Idle curiosity,” he answered with a shrug. “His manner seemed decidedly unfriendly. But then, Russians appear to dislike everyone.”
The comment drew a laugh from the prince. “True,” he agreed. Turning to Anna, he offered his arm. “I, other the other hand, do not wish to appear as churlish, so to make amends for subjecting you to such unpleasantness, please allow me to escort you the refreshment table.”
Leaving her mother beaming in delight, Anna walked with him across the room and accepted a flute of champagne. “No doubt you are disappointed that the shooting has been delayed,” she said, to make polite conversation.
“I do look forward to seeing Scottish moors, for in hunting circles they are renowned for both their beauty and their sporting challenges,” he replied. “However, I am happy to have a chance to explore Lord Dunbar’s library. It, too, is famous among those of us who appreciate the art of medieval illuminated manuscripts.”
His answer was unexpected. She hadn’t been led to believe that he had the slightest interest in books or art.
Her face must have betrayed a spasm of surprise for he smiled over the rim of his glass. “Most people assume I’m a frivolous fellow because I am an avid sportsman. But I also believe in exercising the mind as well as the body.”
Intriguing.
The tiny bubbles of the wine tickled against her tongue. So, she was not the only one who had hidden facets.
“I gather that you, too, have an interest in intellectual pursuits, Miss Sloane?” he went on.
“Yes,” she responded. “I am fascinated by history—”
“And firearms,” interrupted Devlin. He held out his empty glass for a servant to refill. “Perhaps we should invite you to accompany us on the hunt. Are you fond of shooting?”
Only rascally rogues who make a habit of teasing me to distraction.
“Or do you just prefer to make drawings of weaponry?”
“You are an artist of weaponry?” exclaimed Prince Gunther. “Lord Dunbar’s collection of antique armaments is said to contain many unique examples of Scottish claymores and crossbows. For someone interested in the subject, they must afford some superb opportunities for sketching.”
“Lord Davenport is jesting,” she replied tightly. “Please pay no attention to him. I assure you, my drawing skills are no more than ordinary.”
“You are far too modest,” said Devlin. “From what I saw, your rendering of a pistol was extremely accurate.”
“Oh, but pistols and poniards are such dreadfully boring subjects.” Lady de Blois, the widowed French comtesse who had accompanied her sister and brother-in-law to Scotland, sidled up to the table. A buxom blonde, she was wearing an emerald-colored velvet gown with a plunging neckline and a glittering array of matching gems.
“I much prefer to sketch handsome men.” Tracing a finger over the teardrop-shaped pendant nestled between her breasts, the comtesse added, “And beautiful baubles.”
“Lord Dunbar has a lovely collection of Renaissance jewelry on display in the Sculpture Room,” said the prince.
The comtesse batted her kohl-darkened lashes. “Oh, really? Perhaps you would help me locate it sometime tomorrow. I find it impossible to navigate my way around the castle.”
“The prince likely has many official documents to review and decisions to make during his leisure time,” interrupted Devlin smoothly. “While I, indolent idler that I am, have no responsibilities at all. So I would be delighted to serve a guide whenever you like.”
“How accommodating of you, sir. I, too, have no responsibilities, so it seems we are well matched.” Lady de Blois tapped his sleeve coyly with her fan. “I imagine there are many fascinating things to see here, especially for two people with no other distractions.”
Anna couldn’t help but notice that Devlin’s gaze was glued on her décolletage.
“Indeed there are.” He smiled.
A wolfish smile.
“Perhaps we should leave these two to arrange their Grand Tour while we discuss books, Your Highness.” Forcing her eyes away from the sinuous stretch of Devlin’s lips, Anna suddenly felt compelled to show that that she, too, knew how to flutter a flirtatious look. “Shall we find a quiet spot to sit and talk? I would love to hear more about medieval manuscripts.”
“I could ask one of the servants to fetch an example so that I can point out some of the artistic nuances,” said Prince Gunther. “That is, if you are sure that I will not be boring you.”
“Oh, not at all,” answered Devlin for her. “Miss Sloane greatly enjoys expanding her knowledge of the world…” His pause was almost imperceptible. Quite likely only she noticed it. “…intellectual and otherwise.”
Anna tried to remain annoyed, and yet his Be-Damned-to-the-Devil sense of humor couldn’t help but provoke an inner laugh.
He must have sensed her reaction, for as she passed on the prince’s arm he flashed a roguish wink.
She pretended not to see it.
“Enjoy perusing the painted pages,” he murmured.
“Enjoy admiring the baubles,” she shot back.
His laugh was light as a zephyr and lasted only an instant. And yet its sound seemed to tickle against the nape of her neck long after she had crossed to the other side of the room.
Rising early, determined to spend the day at work in her room while the others spent their hours in play, Anna made her way down to the breakfast room. Given the copious amount of wine consumed by everyone the previous evening, she was sure that she would have little company.
However, the sounds coming out through the doorway announced that she was wrong.
“…an emerald ring!”
Anna recognized Lady de Blois’s voice, although this morning it was more shrill than sultry.
“The stone was
very
large, and
very
valuable.”
As she entered the room, she saw Lady Dunbar, flanked by her solemn butler and housekeeper, facing the comtesse. “Perhaps it inadvertently fell from your dressing table?” suggested the countess in some concern. “Have you made a careful search of the room?”
“My maid has looked,” replied Lady de Blois, clasping her hands to her chest. “It is nowhere to be found.”
“I am quite sure it will turn up,” soothed Lady Dunbar. “Please, come sit in my private parlor and have a calming cup of chocolate while Givens and Mrs. Gorman organize a thorough combing of your quarters.”
“Very well,” sniffed the comtesse. “Cook may send some pastries too. I am feeling faint.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“This way, madam.” The silver-haired butler offered his arm and led her away into the corridor.
“Dear me,” fretted Lady Dunbar as the housekeeper moved off with a muted jangling of the massive ring of keys fastened to her apron. “Pouring rain and missing gems—this is hardly an auspicious start to the party.”
“I take it the comtesse has lost a piece of jewelry?” murmured Anna.
“So it seems. I would venture to guess that it’s simply snagged in a fold of her evening gown, or has dropped from the dressing table and lodged in some crack or crevasse.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Anna, forcing a far more unsettling suspicion concerning Devlin and his need for money back into a dark corner of her mind.
“Well, I had better go join Mrs. Gorman in overseeing the hunt.” Taking her leave with a distracted wave, Lady Dunbar hurried away.
However discreet the search party was, the news soon spread through the upper floors, and Anna was shortly joined by a number of the other guests.
“Do you think we have a thief in our midst?” Her mother seemed to be relishing the thought even more than the deviled ham and eggs heaped on her plate. “How very exciting.”
Caro paused in buttering her toast. “Actually…” She shot a quick look at Anna. “I think it’s a very silly suggestion. The comtesse has likely misplaced it and is making a fuss over nothing.”
“She does seem to have a flair for the dramatic,” commented Devlin, as he entered the room and paused by their chairs to straighten his cravat. His hair looked a little damp and windblown, as if he had been out riding.
Damn the Devil for looking so…divinely disheveled.
Anna swallowed quickly to loosen the sudden constriction in her throat, and then couldn’t resist doing a little needling of her own. “You were the one who had the closest look at her baubles. Is it your opinion that one could have come loose from its settings?”
Their eyes met, and his were dancing with mirth.
No man ought to have such a molten gold gaze.
She felt herself falling, falling, into a liquid pool of sun-warmed honey…
“Alas.” Devlin exaggerated a sigh. “I did not ask permission to make a thorough examination of her jewels. However, from what I could see, they looked quite well made to me.”
“Mark my words,” said her mother darkly. “I say there’s something havey-cavey afoot here.”
“Let us not look for trouble where there is none, Mama,” cautioned Anna, shifting her attention away from his half-mocking smile. “I’m sure your dear friend Miriam would not wish for us to stir up any rumors.”
“A very wise suggestion,” agreed Devlin.
Lady Trumbull looked miffed, but contented herself with a bite of her sultana muffin.
“What are your plans for the day, sir?” asked Caro quickly. “Has the weather cleared enough for a hunt?”
“There is still a light mizzle falling, but our German guests have decided they are hardy enough to brave the elements, so we British fellows can hardly fail to do the same. All but the elderly baron and Lord Dunbar have agreed to meet in the Gun Room shortly,” he answered. “And you, ladies?”
“Lady Dunbar has arranged for carriages to take us on a shopping expedition into town,” replied Caro.
“I hear there are some lovely woven blankets and shearling muffs in the shops,” said their mother.
“Are you looking to make some purchases as well, Miss Sloane?” he inquired politely.
“I haven’t decided,” she replied tartly, a little unnerved by the effect he was having on her rebellious body. “I may simply pass the day with a book.”
“That may be the wisest decision of them all, judging by the clouds hovering on the horizon.” Devlin inclined a casual bow. “Now if you will excuse me, I had better fortify myself for the moors with some hot porridge and coffee. Enjoy your day of leisure.”
“Leisure? Ha!” Setting down her pen, Anna flexed her hunched shoulders and slowly massaged the crick in the back of her neck. The muscles were knotted, but the pile of finished pages more than made up for the twinges of discomfort.